


Polished Daggers

by Eagle_Grass_16



Series: Laurent Is Not Quite Human [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Frottage, I Don't Even Know, I'm not sure why I wrote this but, It's 4:54 I guess I'm not sleeping, M/M, Mild Blood, Smut, Vampire Sex, Vampires, this took me so long and it's not even that long, vampire!Laurent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eagle_Grass_16/pseuds/Eagle_Grass_16
Summary: The angle offered Damen a clear view of Laurent's fangs—they looked sharper than they had felt against Damen's tongue; long, white daggers dropping like stalactites from the roof of Laurent's mouth; lethal. Damen found them irrationally beautiful."Is there no way forward for us?" said Damen."You mean, will I come back to your bed for the time we have left?" Laurent was holding himself very still."I mean that we hold the centre. We hold everything from Acquitart to Sicyon. Can we not call it a kingdom and rule it together?""I am—a vampire.""What difference does that make?""I could hurt you, I can hurt you," said Laurent. "I am dangerous.""Yes," said Damen, "I think we've already established that you almost killed me. But you didn't, and now—you wouldn't."
Relationships: Damen & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Laurent Is Not Quite Human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581391
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77





	1. Polished Daggers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is (wordy) smut.  
> 2\. This is basically an alternate version (alternate as in, Laurent is a vampire so they have to sort that out in addition to everything else that makes up their messed-up relationship) of Damen and Laurent's first sex scene after Ravenel (Chapter 12 of _Kings Rising_ ).  
> 3\. I've taken some dialogue and sentences/settings from the original work by C. S. Pacat.  
> 4\. Lastly, I'm not sure which would be more appropriate—thanking my physics teacher for teaching me about resonant frequencies or apologizing for misusing this knowledge.

" _Get out_ ," Laurent bit out, emphatically. His voice was too steady, too careful.

"No," said Damen. "You're unwell."

Laurent laughed, a shaky sound. It was a specious mockery of a laugh, and it seemed to hang in the space between them, even as Laurent continued. "Leave, Damianos. I do not desire company, least of all yours."

Damen had to hold back a flinch at that, the syllables of his name a reminder of who he was and what was still raw between them. He forged on. "At least let me—"

"I am capable of sending for a servant," said Laurent, brushing him off. "You are not a slave anymore. Or do you forget?"

"But you are not going to send for a servant," said Damen. "I know you well enough to know that, Laurent."

Laurent's knuckles were tight where his fingers clutched the edge of the table. His jaw was stiff, as was his posture. He seemed, impossibly, paler than he usually was.

"You know me?" Laurent echoed. "Don't deceive yourself."

Damen's reply was firm. "I don't."

Laurent's lips twisted in derision. Lips that Damen had tasted before, for a night and a morning. Lips that were too bloodless, now. " _You don't know me_."

Damen took a step towards Laurent, who tensed further. "But I want to."

Laurent closed his eyes as if in pain. He said, "Go away, Damianos. I will not beg."

"Nor do I expect it from you." Damen continued his approach, slowly, deliberately. He stopped at an arm's distance from Laurent. "Tell me," said Damen, "what is wrong."

Without opening his eyes, "It does not concern you."

"You concern me." Damen reached out and put a hand over Laurent's bicep. He felt the tension in the muscle, the obstinacy of the restraint. "Are you hurt?"

"I am not."

"Then—"

"Leave." Laurent pulled his arm from Damen's grip. It left him unsteady, and he stumbled a bit, sideways.

Damen caught Laurent with his hand again, righted him, frowned at his hiss of breath. Laurent hung his head, breathing strenuously.

" _Laurent_ ," said Damen, imploringly. His fingers tightened over the smooth fabric of Laurent's conservative Veretian garment. Damen leaned his head closer and, squinting, noticed that a red stain marred Laurent's mouth, spreading along the shallow folds of his lips, stark against the anaemic colour of his face. He'd bitten his own lip. Damen's other hand went up to cup Laurent's jaw, and the subtlest shudder seemed to pass through Laurent. Laurent's expression was a hybrid of frown and grimace. Damen's thumb moved to brush over Laurent's bottom lip, thinning the blood into a smear. The consistency felt particularly viscous.

Damen felt the wisp of warm breath on the tip of his thumb when Laurent's lips parted. Laurent's breaths were shallow, hurried. Damen did not move, did not speak when Laurent tilted his head slightly, angling his jaw, took Damen's thumb a bit between his lips and, slowly—as if giving Damen a warning, a chance to pull away—sank an incisor into the side of Damen's thumb.

It wasn't painful, beyond the sting of the initial prick. Damen wasn't sure what was happening, but he did not pull away. He held himself as still as possible, afraid that if he moved, Laurent would react like a startled animal and recoil. As he watched, waited, Laurent seemed to grow steadier against his hands, though his body still carried the tension it always did. When Damen glanced down, he saw that Laurent's hand had relaxed somewhat against the table's edge.

Damen's gaze flicked back up to find Laurent's eyes open, a narrow, wary, slightly fevered glint in them. There was a reddish tint to Laurent's usually blue irises, making them appear an exotic purple. Laurent held Damen's gaze as he dislodged Damen's thumb from his mouth, leaving the tip wet and chilly in the soft draughts of Laurent's breaths.

"You—"

"Yes." Laurent's tongue darted out to lap at the bead of red welling from the wound in Damen's thumb.

"You were drinking my blood," Damen stated quietly.

Laurent raised a golden brow. "Observant, aren't you."

Damen swallowed. He might not have Laurent's affinity for logic, but this was not _scientific_. "You're..." He broke off.

"A vampire," said Laurent, "is probably what you'd call it, in Akielon."

"A vampire." Damen sampled the word on his tongue. He raked his eyes over Laurent, taking in his pale skin, his now violet-hued eyes. He thought about Laurent's long sleeves and ankle-length robes, his tall boots and high collars, his skin, pinked after hours under sunlight. It was impossible, but not.

He said, "All right."

Laurent just stared at him for a moment, and then he laughed, the mildly disbelieving sound a puff of air on Damen's thumb, which was still in front of Laurent's mouth. "'All right'," said Laurent. "Is that all you've to say?"

Damen slid the hand pressed against Laurent's jaw to cup the back of Laurent's neck, a movement that pulled them closer together. "Do you need more?" he asked. What, he didn't say.

This made Laurent laugh again, another sharp, short sound. A hint of incredulity. "You'll let me," said Laurent.

"I... Yes," said Damen.

Laurent closed his eyes again, took a breath and, as his eyelids lifted slowly, said it like a dare—"Kiss me."

Damen didn't—couldn't—refuse. He leaned down and pressed his lips over Laurent's. He could, he thought, taste the iron in Laurent's mouth. One of Laurent's arms wound around his neck.

Damen moved his lips slowly, careful in his exploration. He could feel Laurent's answering restraint. It began a tentative kiss, as uncertain as their first, on the battlements at Ravenel, when lies and deliberate ignorance had left things as simple as they were convoluted.

Gradually, Damen felt Laurent's mouth grow insistent, questing, and he responded in kind, granting Laurent entrance. A shiver travelled down his spine when he felt Laurent's teeth against his bottom lip, and he pressed back upwards, letting sharp points break open the surface.

With Laurent's teeth locked onto Damen's mouth, the kiss was put on a strange sort of pause. Their mouths remained in contact, but neither of them moved. Damen tasted salt; blood must have leaked from where Laurent was feeding from him.

 _Laurent was feeding from him._ The thought was strange, and the sensation coming from his lip was strange, too, a mixture of tingling and suction. It might have been this particular mix of sensation and realisation, or it might have been the kiss, but Damen found himself aroused, and pressed to Laurent as he was, he was sure that Laurent could feel it.

Laurent pulled back after running his tongue over the fresh wounds on Damen's lip, and they were both flushed and breathing quickly.

"You—" Laurent began, stopped. "Does it—hurt."

"No."

Tersely, "I asked you to leave."

"I said no."

Laurent asked, pained, " _Why_?"

"I couldn't." Damen's hand tightened over Laurent's nape.

"You hate me," said Laurent, but it was hollow, they both know it wasn't true. "I had you whipped almost to death. You should."

"I killed your brother," said Damen. "You should hate me too."

Damen could not describe Laurent's eyes as anything other than unreadable, but they made his heart hurt all the same.

Laurent said, "I hate you."

He said, as if in pained amendment, "I hated you so badly I thought I'd choke on it. If my uncle hadn't stopped me, I would have killed you. And then you saved my life, and every time I needed you, you were there, and I hated you for that, too." A ragged, broken breath. "I wanted so badly to hate you."

The room was very quiet. They did not hear anything beyond these walls, but a fort was never silent, even this late into the night. Outside, guards made their rounds, sentries patrolled, stars blinked their promises to one another, but they were too far away for anyone to notice.

"Is there no way forward for us?" said Damen.

"You mean, will I come back to your bed for the time we have left?" Laurent was holding himself very still.

"I mean that we hold the centre. We hold everything from Acquitart to Sicyon. Can we not call it a kingdom and rule it together?"

He said no more than that, though there were many more words crowding in his chest, forming questions and confessions and even pleas. He waited, and it hurt to do it.

"I am—a vampire." Like he didn't like the flavour of the word on his tongue.

"What difference does that make?"

"I could hurt you, I can hurt you," said Laurent. "I am dangerous."

"Yes," said Damen, "I think we've already established that you almost killed me. But you didn't, and now—you wouldn't."

"How can you trust me, after all that has happened?"

"I think," said Damen, tasting the terrifying truth in the words that followed, "that if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly."

Laurent turned his head, denying Damen his face. Damen could see the rise and fall of his chest, could feel the whispers of his breaths in the space between them. Damen had never given thought to vampires before, dismissing them to be creatures of fantasy and folklore, but he would not have expected them to breathe. Knowing that they did, and that their hearts beat—and Damen knew this, had felt Laurent's pulse before, pressed against Laurent's bared skin—it was somehow comforting.

"I should hate you," Laurent said, and for a moment Damen thought they were back to that deadlock. Then Laurent said, "But when you make love to me like that, I can't think."

The admission made Damen's heartbeat trip. "Don't think," he said, then he said it again.

"Don't," said Laurent, "toy with me."

"I don't toy with you."

"I—" Laurent stopped and looked up, meeting Damen's stare. Laurent's eyes still carried a carmine glare, and from beneath his lips, Damen could glimpse the pointed tips of Laurent's teeth. Teeth that had, minutes ago, been sunk into Damen.

"Don't _think_ ," said Damen, and his voice was breathy.

"Kiss me," said Laurent, "again." The words seemed to have been blurted, almost awkward. Laurent's body sang with tension, and Damen knew there was a struggle taking place in his mind.

Gently, Damen pried Laurent's fingers from the table and brought Laurent's hand up towards himself, then kissed his knuckles, once. Laurent's fingers were cold, incongruous with the mellow warmth of the season.

Laurent's eyes were dark, uncertain; that had not been what he'd been asking for with his request. "I meant—"

Instead of continuing, Laurent pulled Damen close and slotted their mouths together, the series of movements quick but hesitant.

There was at first a dull pain when their mouths met, from pressure on the wounds on Damen's lip, but soon the wet warmth of the kiss overtook that, and Damen wondered briefly if, like several stories claimed, vampire saliva really did have anaesthetic effects, before deciding against it. He felt the exquisite sensation of Laurent's lips and tongue too clearly for that to be true.

Laurent's body was tight in his arms, almost as if he was in pain, caught between guilt and relief, resistance and surrender. "Damianos," he said, breath quick against Damen's mouth.

A part Damen kept waiting for the bite, the prick of the penetration of Laurent's incisors, but that seemed not to be Laurent's intent. The rest of Damen felt a selfish satisfaction that he was not noble enough to denounce; he thought of it: that Laurent knew it was him. Laurent wanted this with _him_.

Damen almost pushed Laurent onto the table, but before he could, Laurent said, in a gasp, "Bed—" Breathless and stumbling, they made their way over.

Damen pressed Laurent onto the bed, held his own body over Laurent's. Laurent's fingers in his hair, tight against his scalp. He ran his hand down Laurent's tight-laced clothing, impatient but too distracted to actually undo anything. Laurent's kisses were open-mouthed, but there was a careful quality to them. Laurent, with his fangs out, was afraid of accidentally drawing blood. Damen felt an absurd fondness at that realisation, and he pushed past the part of Laurent's lips and ran his tongue over the tips of Laurent's teeth, feeling exhilarated at the tantalising scrape of sharp points on soft flesh. Beneath him, he felt Laurent go still.

It wasn't until Damen drew back his tongue that Laurent began responding in earnest again, and now their kiss was less cautious. Laurent remained tense, but there was a controlled vulnerability seeping through as well, an indulgent demand. Damen was hard, and when his hips pressed down, seeking more through the layers of clothing between them, he felt Laurent's answering arousal, the soft shudder running through Laurent's body at the contact.

A push, a slide, Damen let Laurent manoeuvre them so that Laurent sat astride Damen's hips, his knees on either side of Damen's torso. The kiss had broken during their movements; Laurent's breaths passed through his parted lips, his eyes dark and severe and unblinking. The angle offered Damen a clear view of Laurent's fangs—they looked sharper than they had felt against Damen's tongue; long, white daggers dropping like stalactites from the roof of Laurent's mouth; lethal. Damen found them irrationally beautiful.

There was a question in their postures, and Damen answered it without words, drawing Laurent down for something briefer than a kiss. It was Laurent's turn to answer.

Laurent's fingers didn't fumble as he tugged the gold lion pin from Damen's shoulder, where it had held Damen's clothing in place. Laurent's hands pulled the fabric down, open, off. For a few seconds Laurent simply rested his hands on Damen's bare chest, like he was taking in the warmth of Damen's skin. Damen was acutely aware of the familiar disparity of their positions. Astride him, Laurent still in his high-necked jacket, secured with tightly laced ties, his polished boots still wrapped over his feet—and Damen, exposed underneath him, vulnerable. So much more vulnerable, as it turned out, than Damen would ever have thought.

Their gazes were locked on each other as Laurent lifted his hands off Damen's chest and to his own neck. Slowly, he took up the end of one of the laced ties at his throat and pulled, drawing it down and away.

The reality of who they were, what they were, was there between them, the confession blunt and painful, too long overdue. This was the man who had shamed him, whipped him, forced him into the role of a slave with the intention of revenge and the knowledge that he was Damianos, the Prince of Akielos. This was the Veretian prince, his nation's enemy, whose brother he had killed.

Damen could see the flutter of Laurent's shallow, quivering breath. He could feel his intention, different in this moment, yet Damen felt as he did whenever he was the object of Laurent's deliberation, of his unspeaking dark-eyed gaze. Laurent was undressing for him, one lace after another, the jacket coming off first to reveal the thin white shirt underneath, fine enough that the newly healed knife wound on Laurent's shoulder was visible. The healing process, Damen now realised, was perhaps a bit too fast to have been completely human. Laurent's chest rose and fell with his breaths, and his throat moved as he swallowed. He reached back and drew off his shirt.

The sight of Laurent's skin sent an acute shock of desire through Damen. He wanted to reach out, up, and run his hands over it. To put his palm over Laurent's chest and remind himself again of the presence of a beating heart. Damen's hands went to Laurent's waist—a slender, fragile-seeming thing—his thumb drawing simple patterns over tight skin. The muscles of Laurent's stomach and abdomen were taut in tension.

"I know who you are," Laurent said, sounding half like he was trying to talk himself out of something and half like he was trying to reassure Damen of something else. "I know who you are. Damianos."

"Laurent," Damen said, and sat up then. He felt like he was burning where they touched, despite the inexplicable coolness of Laurent's skin.

Laurent slid a little so that he was straddling Damen's lap. He traced his fingers over the scar where Auguste had run Damen through, the last thing Auguste had done before Damen had killed him—and Auguste was between them, like the newly polished edge of a knife, which would grow blunt only with use.

Yet in the dim light there was more than just Auguste between them, and when they kissed, it hurt them both. And perhaps because they were both selfish in their desperation, it was a messy, unsteady joining. Laurent jerked back when the metallic tang of blood blossomed between their lips. His eyes were wide, alarmed, as he took in the sight of the corner of Damen's mouth, stained red from a careless scratch of Laurent's tooth. A scarlet smear of Damen's blood was mirrored on the side of Laurent's mouth, and, as if unconsciously, Laurent licked his lips, lapping at the redness.

Laurent did not apologise, and Damen did not demand one. Instead, he pulled Laurent back towards him, tilted his head, and drew their mouths close. Almost offering his lips, he said, "Clean it up."

Laurent stared at him, and there was another internal battle before he finally leaned in and, not breaking Damen's gaze, began to lick at the drying blood on Damen's lips. It quickly devolved into another kiss, and then Laurent's boots were pulled off, the silk of his courtier's clothes pushed away.

Between them, their cocks brushed against each other in blissful sensation. Laurent let out a quiet gasp, then, voice breathless, "I want it. I want—" He thrust with painful restraint against Damen, searching. He grasped Damen's fingers in his and reached behind himself, urging towards the place where he wanted them.

"We can't, we don't have—"

Laurent grabbed the shallow cup of scented oil from the bedpost and pressed it forcefully into Damen's hand. Slippery liquid sloshed from the rim of the small container, running down Damen's fingers. A dense floral scent wafted around them.

Damen spread the oil over his fingers, the liquid viscous from sitting stagnant in the cup. He reached back around Laurent, ran his finger around the entrance in small, massaging circles, and felt Laurent shudder, pushing down onto his hand. The tip of Damen's finger slid in.

Laurent's entire body seemed to hitch in tandem with his breath when Damen's fingertip ran over that special place inside him. Laurent's body was slackening and tensing with a rhythm that was somehow still familiar to Damen. It was unexpectedly warm where Damen's finger was; the cocoon of heat was slick, and tight, but beginning to loosen, to become accustomed to the intrusion. Damen curled his finger slightly as he slid it outward, slow, dragging it deliberately over Laurent's sensitive spot, and Laurent made a helpless sound. When Damen pushed back in again, it was with two fingers.

Laurent took in a shivering breath and leaned his forehead onto Damen's shoulder, his golden hair caressing Damen's skin, tickling his neck. Damen turned his head slightly and kissed up along the line of Laurent's nape. He took the shell of Laurent's ear between his lips, and let his teeth scrape gently over the cartilage. Laurent exhaled a sharp puff of air against Damen's shoulder, then his fingers wrapped tentatively around their erections and began sliding over both of them.

A quiet groan escaped Damen's mouth, and he couldn't help thrusting into Laurent's grip, slippery from handling the scented oil, even as his own fingers worked Laurent open.

Then Laurent pushed his body up, supporting himself on his knees. Damen's fingers slipped out of him, and they felt chilly rendered in sudden contact with the air. Laurent let go of their cocks and pushed Damen onto his back, keeping his hands on Damen's chest so that his fingers brushed against the bumps of Damen's nipples as he shuffled himself forward. 

Laurent's hand reached behind and under, held Damen in place as he sank down over him. Laurent's eyes were heavy with gold lashes, his fangs glinting lethally as huffs of air passed through his lips, his body like a bowstring, taut, controlled, but pliable.

A shuddering breath pushed its way out of Damen's lungs at the sensation of Laurent's body around him. It was tight and hot and more intimate than it had been before, their pretenses now having been bared before them. It was so painfully good and Damen's fingers tightened at Laurent's hips, involuntary, before he loosened them and slid his hands down to the curve of Laurent's buttocks. If Damen's grip had hurt, Laurent gave no indication. Instead, he drew himself up a little with visible effort before sinking back down; then again. His hands pressed down on Damen's chest rhythmically as he hoisted his weight up and down, and Damen's hips stuttered upwards to meet Laurent's efforts in this tense, unsatisfying fuck. 

Laurent was trembling.

His body, carried with its defensive tightness, was like the vibrating strings of a kithara. Damen wanted to find its resonance and watch the strings snap.

He reached up and tugged Laurent down, their noses brushing and mouths angling into a kiss. Laurent leaned into the kiss, pressing his weight forward onto Damen. Damen's hand slid over the side of Laurent's neck, his thumb resting over Laurent's racing pulse, his fingers slipping into Laurent's hair. The movements of Laurent's hips had slowed, almost as if in fatigue, and his breaths were laboured against Damen's lips.

"Laurent," said Damen, looking up into the bluish violet of Laurent's eyes. "Bite me."

Laurent's eyes widened, caught off-guard. Damen watched the battle in Laurent's eyes, felt the succumbing in Laurent's entire body as he lowered his gaze from Damen's. The tip of his nose grazed Damen's skin in soft whispers as his head travelled down to Damen's collarbone. Damen felt the hesitant scratch of Laurent's incisors over his skin before he felt them dig down and cut into the soft, unprotected flesh above his clavicle. Laurent made a quiet, scintillant sound that was part satisfaction, part relief.

Damen kept his body still, though they were still connected at the tip and he wanted, badly, to thrust up and bury himself back entirely in the warm folds of Laurent's body. Instead, he reached a hand through the crevasse between their bodies to curl his fingers around Laurent's cock, hard and a little wet at the tip.

Laurent's body gave a short, checked jolt at the contact, and Damen felt a tug where Laurent's fangs were still hooked into his skin, the rush of air when Laurent inhaled in a quick sharp hiss. Laurent's fingers, which had been resting on Damen's shoulder and bicep, dug slightly into flesh before effortfully relaxing again. Damen began moving his hand around Laurent's cock, giving it teasing tugs and flirting caresses. As it had been in Ravenel, he was attuned to the most understated reactions of Laurent's body, the tensing and unfurling of his pleasure.

Laurent's clutch on Damen was almost painful when he came, his body stiffening before becoming overtaken by the physicality of his climax. Liquid warmth spilled onto Damen's stomach and slipped over his fingers, smearing. Damen's other hand came around Laurent's back and stopped over his nape, fingertips carding through fine golden hair. He held Laurent carefully to him, held himself unmoving against the tide of arousal rising inside of him at the feeling of Laurent so undone against him.

Laurent extricated his fangs from beneath Damen's flesh with a quiet, wet gasp, and for a moment he simply kept his face half-buried in the space between Damen's neck and shoulder. The sensation of Laurent's tongue licking over and around the fresh wounds on Damen's skin was tantalising, almost incongruously innocent. After Laurent had presumably cleaned the punctures to his satisfaction, he turned his head and paused only barely before closing his lips over the lobe of Damen's ear.

It seemed, having nourished himself adequately from Damen's blood, Laurent was feeling unexpectedly—playful. And Damen tried very hard to keep still as Laurent kissed and licked and bit down on his ear, lightly and breaking no skin, but it took only a few moments for him to tilt his head helplessly away and laugh.

Laurent pulled back. Their faces were still close. Laurent's eyes were back to their pure, intoxicating blue, no longer showing any hint of red. He said, "Are you— _ticklish_?" 

Damen met his eyes, the ghost of a smile still on his mouth. "Yes."

He watched in something akin to wonder as a responding smile seemed to play on Laurent's face. He thought he saw a spark in Laurent's eyes. Damen opened his mouth to say something, but then promptly forgot what it was because Laurent leaned up and sat back and took Damen into his body in one luxurious slide. Damen let out a surprised moan instead.

"Yes," said Laurent, his eyes closing briefly. He sounded like he felt just as wrecked but was mustering as much control as he could manage.

A light tug was the only warning Damen gave before he reversed their positions, setting Laurent's back against the mattress as he pushed into Laurent's body, still pliant after his recent release. Laurent's back arched, and an abrupt cry slipped past his lips before he pressed them tightly together and flushed, Damen thought, rather endearingly.

Feeling ridiculously fond, Damen leaned down and kissed him, and it took scarcely any prodding for Laurent's lips to open beneath his.

Beyond the doors to this room were soldiers readying for a potential war. Beyond the hours of the night, preparations awaited them, their kingdoms hanging in precarious balance. There were questions Damen wanted to ask, questions that would simultaneously hurt and soothe, break and heal. Those came after.

Laurent's arms went around Damen's neck, his wrists rested on Damen's shoulders. When the rhythm of Damen's hips stammered, approaching that sought-after relief—finally, too soon—Laurent lifted his legs, hooked his ankles over Damen's hip bone, and pulled Damen in close, deep, pushing his own hips downwards to meet Damen's.

Laurent's eyes were resolutely open, his breath once more shallow, and Damen came apart lost in the depths of the beautiful blue of those eyes, Laurent's name broken on his lips. A tremor ran through him, gathering momentum, then he was shuddering, his body pulsing, and somehow there was enough left of his mind to process Laurent's nails digging into his shoulders, Laurent's voice saying his name, " _Damianos_ ," and then, " _Damen_ ," Laurent's body an echoing shudder, a mirror of the pleasure roiling through Damen.

They were still staring into each other's eyes when their breathing returned to normal and their pulses slowed, and the kiss that followed was a pale caress, mollifying. It was almost chaste. It was bitter, and it was sweeter than anything Damen had ever tasted.

Had the person sharing his bed been Jokaste, he might have been murmuring _I love you_ into her lips, believing he meant it; or if it had been a slave, he might have said it regardless, meaningless nothings muttered into the pleasant fog of residual pleasure, praises whispered into skin and rumpled sheets.

There were scars on his back, there were wounds in Laurent's memory, fatal. They held the weights of their kingdoms and their pasts.

Before Laurent, he would have said it now, in the post-coital haze, even if he wouldn't have meant it.

He felt Laurent's fingers in his hair, the drying stickiness between their bodies.

He said, " _Laurent_ ," into the kiss.

❖

They had always been good at leaving the truths unspoken. They would hurt more out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that.  
> I guess I can now add "vampire sex" to the list of weird things I've tried writing.  
> Also I'm still not entirely sure of the properties of the vampire I've made Laurent out to be. But I know he doesn't sparkle.


	2. An Acquired Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m... I burn easily. Heal faster. I don’t need to breathe”—he caught the question in Damen’s expression—“though I do. Call it habit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-short explanation of Laurent's vampire properties. This is not wordy smut.  
> Also, fluff. And frottage.

Laurent's fangs were gone by morning.

When Damen opened his eyes, they were facing each other in the bed. One of Damen’s arms had been slung over Laurent’s waist, and Laurent seemed to have been awake for a while. His gaze was on the red points of the two puncture wounds above Damen’s clavicle. 

Damen lifted his arm, moving it up so that his hand was at Laurent’s neck, which was usually hidden beneath the folds of his collar and laces. At the movement, Laurent’s eyes came up, and a small, shy smile curved his mouth. Damen couldn’t resist—he shifted forward and kissed the smile, felt it widen and split apart under his lips.

“Damen,” said Laurent, the syllables soft as a breath.

Damen smiled. His fingers reached up and tucked stray strands of golden hair behind Laurent’s ear. “Laurent.”

For a moment they simply stared, content to be in each other’s arms. Neither of them wanted to face what awaited them out of bed quite yet.

“You have questions,” said Laurent, “about me.”

“You eat,” said Damen. "Food."

Laurent lifted his brows. “Yes,” he said. “That’s not a question.”

“What is—different?” Damen asked. “Besides the blood.”

Laurent gave a small shrug. “I’m... I burn easily. Heal faster. I don’t need to breathe”—he caught the question in Damen’s expression—“though I do. Call it habit.”

“Habit?”

Laurent’s eyes were wistful. “I was not _born_ a vampire.”

“Then?”

“I was—turned—by an elder from one of the mountain clans. Very far north, near Ver-Kindt.” Laurent’s tone was flat, repressed. “It was after Marlas. My uncle had tried to kill me, and in a sense you might say he succeeded. Paschal found me, and somehow managed to keep me alive long enough to get me to the clan elder.”

Damen’s heart ached for the youth that Laurent had been, and his hatred of the Regent rose up several notches. He thought about the part he contributed to Laurent’s misery during the past years, and he knew that between them, there would always be some things undeserving of forgiveness, on both their parts. He said, “Paschal knew them to be vampires?”

Laurent shook his head, once. “No. Just that they could bring people back from the brink of death.”

They were silent for a few moments, then Laurent added, “Not immortal, though.”

“You have a heartbeat,” said Damen. “Is that habit, too?”

Laurent shook his head. He wrapped his fingers around Damen’s wrist and put Damen’s palm to his chest, over the steady pulse beneath his skin. “That’s real. And—involuntary,” said Laurent, as his pulse sped up under Damen’s fingertips.

Damen leaned in for a brief kiss. “All right,” he said against the corner of Laurent’s mouth, and brushed his thumb with intent over Laurent’s nipple, feeling Laurent’s small gasp against his cheek. “How often do you need blood?”

“About twice a month,” Laurent answered. He slotted a leg between Damen’s legs, seeking contact of a more intimate sort. “I usually have Paschal take care of it.”

Damen’s hand had reached between them, his fingers closing around both of their cocks. “How does it work?”

Laurent’s breathing was growing strained. “Paschal—he usually draws the blood from—” Laurent gave a small, surprised cry as Damen’s finger swirled deliberately at the tip of his cock. “From—soldiers. He tells them it’s for medical testing. Experiments.”

Damen reached over and above, dipped his fingers in the cup of scented oil they had used last night. His hand quickly returned to where it had been. “Last night—how long had it been?”

Laurent arched into Damen’s touch, and then they were rocking into each other. Damen had not thought something so simple could feel so good. Their movements were tender, unhurried, and whenever Laurent’s eyes fell closed from sensation, Damen’s chest tingled with vicarious pleasure.

“Six weeks,” said Laurent. “We’ve been travelling. It’s not been ideal—the soldiers... _Damen_.”

A sharp hum. A helpless thrust. Laurent muffled any sounds he made against Damen’s mouth when he came, hips tensing and untensing in uncontrollable rolls. Then Laurent put his hand over Damen’s, brushing his fingers against the sensitive skin of Damen’s cock in a stroke that Damen thought must have somehow been precisely calculated, because it made Damen shudder and spill his release over both their fingers, gasping.

When they brought their hands away, it was with the sticky, drying evidence of both their climaxes over their fingers. They looked from each other to their hands, then shared an almost bashful smile before wiping their hands on the sheets.

Damen said, “What do I taste like, to you?”

“Slightly—savoury. Rich.” Laurent's cheekbones were tinted a rosy pastel.

“Would it be enough,” said Damen, “for you to only drink from me?”

Laurent glanced over at him. “Shouldn’t possessiveness work the other way around?”

Damen pulled him into a kiss, then said, quietly, honestly, “I don’t like the thought of someone else’s blood in your body.”

Laurent’s flush deepened even as an amused smirk flirted over his lips. His eyes were unsure. He said, “I worry I’d hurt you.”

“You won’t,” said Damen, “I promise. I won’t let you.”

“I trust you,” said Laurent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so resignedly hungry.


End file.
